


Where The Nightingales Are Singing

by tisziny



Series: Star-Crossed [2]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: AU, F/M, Missing Scene, episode rewrite, episode tag along
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisziny/pseuds/tisziny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was, without a doubt, the woman that had invaded his dreams for so many years after the war. His Nightingale. Miss Phryne Fisher. And he had no idea how to proceed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is a sequel to my fic Star-Crossed. You should really read that first. http://archiveofourown.org/works/2418674
> 
> Also, this story comes to you in a collection of short snapshots, one for each episode of series 1.
> 
> The fic title comes from the song There's A Long Long Trail a Winding. I felt that as a popular war time song, and considering the lyrics, if fit quite well.

At twenty-eight years old, Phryne had seen and done a lot more than she ever would have imagined. She’d travelled the continent, made friends, lovers, perhaps a minor enemy or two. She’d learnt Turkish and Russian, and even dabbled in a bit of Chinese. Overall she’d spent a good portion of her time dancing and drinking and enjoying life in any way that she could, though it meant she had numerous fights with her father. 

Eventually their arguments, his drinking and gambling, the endless attempts to marry her to the richest most titled man available, became too much and she left England hoping to leave her family as far behind her as she could. 

She arrived in Melbourne to the welcome of her old friend, one Doctor Elizabeth Macmillan, but her celebration of leaving her family to dust was quickly cut short by the sharp reminder of her aunt’s residence in the city.

The last time she had seen Prudence Stanley had been the departure of Lord and Lady Fisher from Australia. Phryne had been dressed in the best of Melbourne’s fine wear for young ladies and hugged terribly close to her abrupt aunt’s bosom before she boarded ship. Uncomfortable in her new and all too pristine clothes, angry at leaving her home and despondent at abandoning the place that held the memories of her lost sister, Phryne had slumped her face to her hand, leaning un-ladylike over the railing of the ship as her mother proudly waved to her sister and they left for England.

Hoping the years since the war had modernised her aunt somewhat, Phryne arrived by invitation to the Lydia Andrews house and was immediately saved from a no doubt tedious luncheon event by the apparent murder of poor Lydia’s husband. 

And it was there that it all started.


	2. Cocaine Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and I forgot to mention, thank you to Sam for beta reading for me :)

She wasn’t exactly sure what it was that made her do it. Boredom after her three month voyage or the mixture of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie novels she’d been reading recently. Or perhaps it was just her childhood predisposition for sticking her nose curiously into places it shouldn’t go, returned to her by the short conversation with her unchanged aunt.

For whichever reason it was Phryne found she couldn’t help herself from ducking past a bumbling Constable and sneaking away to the bathroom where the body of Mr Andrews had been found. Closing the door behind her she relished in the small thrill bubbling through her. She’d always loved to have a good snoop.

She was interrupted, as she’d known she would be, after only a few minutes by a loud knock on the door.

“This lavatory’s fully occupied!” she announced.

“Police; open up.”

Phryne ignored the command, pausing to reapply her lipstick before striding over to the door.

She opened it with a charming smile across her face. “You must be the Inspector.” She said as she opened the door to the faces of the Constable she’d sidestepped to get here and the superior he’d said he’d collect. “Apologies for my urgent call of nature.”

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson blinked.

Constable Collins had asked him about a lady needing to use the facilities of the house before she could leave, and of course when he’d returned to the stairs to speak with this lady, she had gone. A heavy knock on the door of their crime scene and the woman was revealed.

She was just over five feet tall, dressed in an outfit of pink and red, a smile on her painted lips as she tried to bat her eyelashes at him to remove herself from trouble. Jack ignored her wiles, stepping into the room to speak with her plainly.

“This is the scene of a crime.”

“Well,” She said, holding her hands up in front of her, “lucky for you, I’m wearing gloves.” She smiled sweetly and Jack frowned.

There was something strange about this woman, something... almost familiar.

Before he could consider this the woman pulled one of her white gloves from her hand and eyed him expectantly as she introduced herself. “Miss Phryne Fisher!”

Jack met her gaze. The name was completely unfamiliar to him, but there, in the twinkle of her eye and the curve of her smile... she knew him.

He took her hand, his fingers warm and calloused against her own rather dainty ones, but didn’t return the introduction. “I assume you weren’t close to the deceased,” he said instead.

“Never had the pleasure, but by all accounts he was charming.” Miss Phryne Fisher turned to his Constable, “Do you think it was poison?”

“Most likely-” the young man began to say, but Jack cut over him firmly with a warning stare.

“We are yet to determine the cause of death.” He turned back to the matter at hand, “Miss Fisher, I appreciate your curiosity for crime-” He began to step toward her, forcing her to step back to the door.

“Well every lady needs a hobby,” she said with a smile. What was it about that smile?

“-but please-” Jack leant his arm against the door to block her way, but she simply ducked beneath it and began to speak again.

“Given the lack of bloodstains I assume it wasn’t a violent death, unless of course it was strangulation, but the foetal position of the victim outline, although not terribly well executed, indicates a degree of pain rather than the flailing limbs one might associate with a struggle. And then of course there’s the fact that death occurred after breakfast according to Mrs. Andrews,” Jack saw his Constable writing in his notebook and stared at the man until he stopped, “which _suggests_ something... ingested?” Miss Fisher finished, looking at the pair.

“All wild surmise of course.” She added for good measure.

“Of course-” Jack stepped forward to shepherd her out again, but her eyes lit up and she stepped forward eagerly.

“Do you have a card?” she asked him, moving closer still and staring him right in the eye, trying to make herself appear as small and vulnerable as possible. “In case I need to call the police.”

That was it. Those wide open eyes now so close to him, her face long and relaxed... A memory invaded Jack’s senses. He could hear the gunfire; smell the mud and the death in the air. He could see her face, her eyes staring up at him as he ducked behind the sandbags, hunched over her, protecting her as he took shelter from enemy fire.

> _“They’ll stop soon, won’t they?”_
> 
> _“They might.”_
> 
> _“And if they don’t?”_

“Because,” her low voice pulled him from the memories, and he watched as she tucked back a faint strand of her short black hair. “I’m a woman alone, newly arrived in a dangerous town...”

He kept her gaze and reached into his pocket, pulling a business card from his pocket. “I plan to make this town less dangerous, Miss Fisher.”

“Good,” she said, dropping her vulnerable act to slide easily into flirtation as she accepted the offered card, “I do like a man with a plan.”

She looked at the card in hand and read; “Detective Inspector,” her eyes returned to his, “Jack Robinson.”

She walked past him, closer than was necessary, fanning herself with his card and roaming her eyes over him as she went.

Constable Collins closed the bathroom door behind her, and Jack sighed heavily.

She was, without a doubt, the woman that had invaded his dreams for so many years after the war. His Nightingale. Miss Phryne Fisher. And he had no idea how to proceed.


	3. Murder on the Ballarat Train

It was raining outside, and Jack heard the faint sounds of thunder as he accepted an offer of a drink. He should know better, he told himself, taking a seat on the piano stool across from Miss Fisher curled into the window seat. But one drink wouldn’t hurt, surely. He could put that down to winding down from a hard case involving many abused children –and not at all the shock of seeing a gun pointed toward a woman who’d only just returned to his otherwise dull life. Though the way she’d talked down the gun-woman had been nothing if not impressive.

Telling her he’d spoken to Welfare about the matter of the young stowaway, Jane, and Miss Fisher’s wish to foster the teen, led of course to a question he should have known to expect.

“What about babes of your own?”

“Uh no, no we were never blessed.” He smiled a strange and awkward smile as she looked at him calculatingly. He wondered what she was thinking.

“To all the kids who have been through the wringer then, Inspector Robinson.” Miss Fisher raised her glass and he met it with his before swallowing his drink in one and choking slightly as it burnt him.

She smiled, sipping her own drink and he cleared his throat.

“You might as well call me Jack,” he told her, feeling his heart flood as her lips drew up in a truly happy smile. “Everyone else does.”

“Very well, Jack,” and his ears must be lying to him, because she sounded near tears. “And you may call me Phryne, although hardly anyone else does.”

There was no stopping his smile at her words. He’d longed for many years to know her name, and here she was giving it to him so simply. A gift to his heart.

“What about you,” he asked curiously, “You never married?”

Phryne poured herself another drink and held up the decanter in offer. Wordlessly Jack gave her his glass and she filled it before passing it back and speaking.

“Marriage is not something I ever want to get close to.”

Jack raised his eyebrows, and sipping her drink Phryne explained.

“I was -not engaged but… I was, I suppose you would say, in love. Once.” She told him, “A long time ago now. He was charming and kind. He loved me very deeply.”

“But?”

“It was a little too deep.” She smiled, and Jack saw her eyes glaze with memories, “And when he realised my love didn’t reach the same depths… It was like I was drowning. He was holding me down and I became trapped until... until I escaped. I decided I was far better off being my own woman, so that is what I did.”

She looked to him suddenly, “Your wife is lucky to have you Jack. An honest man.”

Jack swallowed. “Not always, Miss Fisher.” He raised his glass to his lips and swallowed the contents, before standing. “I should be leaving.” 

Phryne nodded and she walked with him to the front door, opening it for him as he pulled his coat over his shoulders.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

He looked at her, pausing in the doorway to give her a small nod. “Goodnight, Phryne.”


	4. The Green Mill Murder

Jack put the key in the lock and turned. His front door opened obediently and he stepped slowly into the dark and quiet house. It was empty, but for once Jack was glad of Rosie’s absence. 

The photos tucked securely away in his briefcase haunted his thoughts as he stripped himself of his coat and hat. There was no official reason to say he couldn’t have them, they would have been disposed of otherwise, and she was never officially charged for the break and enter. But morally... well there Jack wavered. 

He shouldn’t do this. It was very clearly a terrible idea. It was dishonourable; to her trust and friendship. To Rosie.

His eyes closed as guilt ran through him. Poor Rosie. He came back from the war a broken man, an unfaithful man. Rosie couldn’t help him, she didn’t understand what it was like. The horror and the despair of war, she thought he could just forget it. She thought they could pretend it had never happened and that they were still newlyweds thinking of the bright future ahead, and the children they planned when all he could think of was the past.

How he had longed in those first years, for his young nurse. Her kind eyes and her quick mind. She would have stood by him and let him heal. She would have taught him French and taken him dancing or some other lark. She would have soothed his nightmares and held him through, because she knew. She had lived it too. Rosie just couldn’t compare.

It was wrong. Unfair. Cruel, almost.

Jack sighed.

He stepped slowly into his study -a small room that had once been furnished for the baby that never was- and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. Sitting in his desk chair, Jack felt his heart pound heavily in his chest. He unlocked the lid of his grandfather’s old writing desk with shaking fingers.

They were tucked away. Hidden within a book that lay at the bottom of a hidden drawer underneath the writing space of the desk. He had put them here almost ten years ago, where nobody would ever find them.

Jack swallowed thickly, his fingers sliding the book from its drawer and laying it on the desk. There had been a time when it was all he could think of, hiding in this room and reaching for this book. He rarely allowed himself the opportunity.

Reaching now for his briefcase, Jack pulled out the file he had taken. It held four photographs, Miss Fisher’s mischievous face looking out from each of them, and he couldn’t suppress a smile. She was painfully wonderful, he thought. Far too much trouble, and found herself caught up in too many of his cases for his liking. But she made him laugh, as she always had. And she looked at him with such understanding, such respect.

Like tonight, her eyes had swept over him like a beacon of light as she realised he was twisting the law for her, just a little. Just enough.

Trailing his finger over the black and white rendering of her cheek he sighed and tucked each photograph safely between the book’s pages. In front the book held a poem he’d memorised both in the original French and as well in English. But in the back -and he turned almost without conscious thought to the page now- was a letter. The page was weathered and torn along the edges with age and war. But that did not matter. The words were what mattered. He read them over and over until he could not face them a second longer. Taking care to tuck the paper away safely and return the book to it’s hidden drawer, Jack retreated from the room.

_I will make sure you are loved._ The words rung in his mind. 

_Keep yourself safe, my darling._ The never ending guilt returned. _And live well._ How could he, he wondered?

Jack put himself to bed without supper. Face tucked into the comfort of his pillow he fell asleep with her face in his mind’s eye, her voice in his ear.

_Your Nightingale._


	5. Death At Victoria Dock

“Whose blood is it Miss?” It was a simple question, one of worry and concern and naivety. Phryne didn’t imagine for a moment Dot knew how it stung her.

“I don’t know Dot.” She said. A simple answer. “He was young.”

Too young. They always were.

Dot stepped quietly from the room and Phryne was left alone. She sat in the water, not really feeling it. Not feeling much of anything. Completely numb with the evenings events; empty because she couldn’t bear the pain. With her knees cradled to her chest the memories wound through her mind.

It had been a war to end all wars. But it had never ended, not really. With every loud crash of thunder, or the faintest whiff of iron, it was all happening over again.

Blood rushing beneath her fingers, a desperate life fading away. A young man so far from home, his hand in hers, his dying words in her ears. The moment scored by bomb blasts and gunshots, yells of the men outside, yells of the living and the dying and tears falling down her face. Covered in mud, sweat and death she did all she could to save them.

It wasn’t always enough.

Slowly Phryne lay herself back in the tub, letting her body slip beneath the surface, then her shoulders, her head. She closed her eyes and felt her short hair brush against her face. It had always brought her some solace, on the bad days or nights after the nightmares and the memories, that she had saved him. She had saved Jack.

Living in France after the war she had clung to the thought of him living and breathing, somewhere in the world. The sight of him on that train as she kissed her goodbye to the wind.

Under the water she began to consider where her life might be had he… Had he been a single man. Perhaps things would have turned out differently. She’d have lain in his arms, her young heart on a platter and perhaps he’d have taken it. Treasured it as he fought the final weeks and survived the unending horror.

Would she have left him her name, would he have looked for her? Or would she have searched for him, the Australian named Jack. He was a patient, there would have been paperwork to help her.

Or perhaps at the train station. A sea of men waiting to return to home shores, the smallest glimpse of his face from her view out the train window. She had rushed through the crowd, but lost him to her own hesitations. But perhaps, had she thought more clearly she might have run to him, brought him into her arms once more. He’d have kissed her and she could have whispered her name to his ear with a promise to find him, follow him. 

Perhaps they would write, a romance across the seas, and she would follow him to the town of her childhood.

And where would she be now? Phryne wondered. His dutiful wife, the bearer of his children?

Somehow that didn’t ring true.

But happy, she thought. She would have been so happy, and, she conceded, would have married him. And they would have still found Jane, welcomed her into their home and hearts. And perhaps there would have been more lost children before her.

And pets, Phryne thought to herself. A loyal dog for Jack to care for, and perhaps a bird, or a cat to keep her company, though sooner or later she would have found something to keep herself occupied with. Journalism, or sordid tales for railway reading, under an assumed name of course. _Jacqueline Nightingale_ , whose books would rival those of D.H Lawrence, and Jack would be required to confiscate for the content of pornography he had helped choreograph.

Phryne smiled to herself from under the warm water. That would be an interesting life, she thought. But she was -tonight perhaps excused- enjoying this one plenty, too.


	6. Raisins and Almonds

He sighed, knowing the conversation he’d have to have, knowing how pitiful it was.

“Jack?” He looked up from his desk to see her returning from the cell where they had kept Miss Leigh until together he and Miss Fisher had found the real murderer.

“Still here,” Jack told her, and she stepped through the side door of his office and moved to collect two glasses and a bottle from his filing cabinet.

“Poor Miss Leigh,” she said. “Saul was lost to her from the moment they met.”

As she sat in the chair opposite Jack couldn’t help but remember her words from earlier in their investigation. She’d been standing so close to him then, dangerously close. And dangerous words had been spoken from her lips;

> _“She wouldn’t have killed him Jack, she loved him. They were having an affair.”_
> 
> _“He was married.”_
> 
> _“It happens.”_

They both knew it happened, married men finding love in women not their wife. They knew it all too well and Miss Fisher had looked at him so clearly, almost as if she was testing him. Poking him with a stick and dangling herself before him to see if he’d rise to the bait, and oh how he longed to. But the thought twisted his stomach and he’d ignored the chance for them to finally have that discussion, and instead tried to insist such an affair only gave Miss Leigh more motive.

“I’ve been contemplating,” Jack said, forcing his thoughts back to the present, “What to write to his wife.”

Miss Fisher looked at him, and then dropped her gaze to pour them each a much needed drink. “Five years and half a world apart,” she said. “What kind of a marriage can survive that?”

This, Jack realised, was his chance.

“I went to war a newlywed.”

“But you came home.” She looked at him significantly as she passed his glass across the desk.

Jack couldn’t look at her. He needed to say these things he knew, but the war and his wife- they were topics he’d been trying to avoid, for longer than Miss Fisher’s return in his life, but stronger than ever these last weeks.

“Not the man my wife married,” he said, shaking his head slightly, “Sixteen years ago.”

“War will do that to you.”

“My wife’s been living with her sister for some time now.”

His eyes did not meet hers, but he didn’t need to look to know she was staring. He could feel her eyes on him as sharp as anything, a question hanging suddenly in the air between them.

Jack sighed, looking to his hands. “But a marriage is still a marriage, Miss Fisher.” He cautioned a glance upward and knew in a moment that Phryne understood.

He was telling her it could not be talked of. Not be rekindled. They may have found each other again, but his honour, his wife; they held him back, despite the circumstances.

“Especially to a man of honour,” She offered him a small smile and raised her glass.

It was strange, he thought, how much this felt like losing her again. But they met glasses and drank. Phryne replaced her glass to his desk and stood, moving to his office door and only looking back to him, her Jack, for one more fleeting glance.

She had survived ten years without him at all, she reasoned, she could survive to be his colleague, his partner in only crime. Of course she could, she was Phryne Fisher. And she had sworn to herself a long time ago she would never let herself need a man again.

But, the back of her mind reminded her, that promise had been made after she had loved and lost Jack Robinson.


	7. Ruddy Gore

“I thought you didn’t like operetta?” Phryne said with a grin, catching sight of Jack’s appreciative gaze as she tied the ribbon of Leila Esperance’s bonnet under her own chin.

“I didn’t,” Jack admitted, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, “But I do now.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and turned her back to Jack as Gwilym Evans passed her a script.

“If you could just, follow along as best you can?” The young man said as she took the offered papers.

“Where’s my mark?”

Gwilym placed his hands on her upper arms and lead her a few steps to her right, “Right here.” Then he stepped back to his own place and removed his hat, suddenly in character.

“Mistress Rose!” He greeted her in a large theatre voice,

“Master Robin,” Phryne simpered. But as quickly as she’d stepped into character she stepped out again, tilting her head with a frown as she sniffed the air. “Do you smell hyacinths?”

The creak of a rope above them caught her attention, and Phryne looked up, vaguely hearing Gwilym step closer and reach for her script.

Two hands pushed her suddenly to the side and the rope above them snapped dropping a sandbag as Leila yelled from the wings.

Phryne fell to the floor with a painful thud, Jack lying heavily across her. She heard the sandbag hit something, and Gwilym fall next to her, then the blackness closed around her.

“Phryne?” a voice murmured. It was low and soothingly familiar. But her mind spun, she didn’t want to open her eyes. “Phryne…”

Jack was looking down at her, his face so close, his body hovering over hers. Gunshots rang through her head, the yells of a dying man silenced as she lay pressed into the mud, a soldier straddling her stomach and returning fire. She stirred from the memory and back to consciousness and quickly the familiar weight of Jack Robinson moved to one side, taking one of her hands as someone else took the other and slowly they helped her to sit.

Her head really did hurt, she thought, finding her feet with Jack and Bart still on each of her sides. She must have hit that floor terribly hard. 

It was in a haze that she reached for her aching head, and learnt poor Gwilym had met his end. Jack did not leave her side until she found a place to sit on the set. Around her the others talked. She tried to listen but her mind ached, and she had something important she needed to tell Jack before she forgot.

Reaching out her hand she found his coat and ran her fingers over his forearm. Immediately Jack crouched before her, taking her hand and squeezing it, his eyes full of concern. 

“I smelt hyacinths,” she murmured, “Just before the sandbag dropped.”

Jack nodded in understanding, then spoke past her to Bart. His gaze returned to her however, and he spoke carefully, trying to sound casual though the circumstances were anything but.

“How's your head?”

He was worried, she knew him well enough to see that. But perhaps that was to be expected. She had been right below that sandbag before it fell, if Jack hadn’t pushed her out of the way… He had saved her life, again. 

Phryne pushed the thought away. “It'll be fine.” she whispered, “I just need a moment.”


	8. Murder in Montparnasse

She haunted him. All the way from Café Réplique to the station he could taste nothing but her on his lips. Smell only her perfume, feel only the fine fabric of her coat and the soft skin of her cheek... 

It had been a long time since he’d had the fortune of kissing anyone, but kissing Phryne… That was something he never thought he would have again.

He hadn’t thought at the time, all he knew was he needed to pull her attention away from the door, away from Rene Dubois. Then suddenly his hand was in her hair and her lips were on his. She was still with surprise, until as one they melted together. He sucked her upper lip between his, and her own parted easily. Her tongue pressed cautiously forward and his hand found her back, holding her close, Dubois forgotten. Her eyes closed and Jack felt her kiss him back, felt her fingers rest on his chest, her other hand on his knee, gripping him tight.

They parted with a small sigh from her lips, their breath mingling as for a moment they just looked at each other and let the memories overwhelm them.

Now as he waited at her door, a painting in hand, Jack fought down the urge to pull her to his arms once more. Curse the world, curse society and standards and his marriage and give in to his heart’s desire. But then, the next image to haunt him came blasting through his mind.

Phryne in the arms of that madman, a gun to her throat. Tears in her eyes as she struggled with her captor, then turned the gun on him instead.

Jack did not know who Dubois had been to her those years ago in France, but he knew if she had shot him then, he would not have faulted her. It would have been self defense, he reasoned to himself, even now as Mr Butler let him into her home. It was not like he would be letting her get away with murder.

With that thought he hung his hat by the door and turned to Miss Fisher herself where she stood in her parlour.

“This is certainly a well travelled work of art,” he commented, stepping forward into the room.

Phryne took the wrapped painting with a smile, “A little like me.” she said, and she knelt to the ground, placing the painting on the table before her and pulling at the strings.

Jack sat on the table’s other side, and Phryne looked up at him. She showed no signs of the trauma she had been through, her smile bright, her eyes kind and affectionate, her voice completely steady.

“Thank you, for helping to retrieve it.” She said. Then she pulled away the paper and revealed the painting before him.

Jack could only stare.

It was beautiful. Of course it was. Phryne laid out on a lush fur, her robe open and her body displayed. She looked different, her hair longer, her body slimmer. He traced over her hipbone with his eyes and remembered how he had once held her right there, his hands gripping tight to her hips as her own dug into his back. He remembered his face pressed between those two pert breasts, kissing her skin, feeling her every moan all around him as she threw her head back and cried into the night.

He tore his eyes from the painting, the young Phryne he had loved to the woman before him; older, wiser, and still as completely enchanting as she had been in 1918.

“You’re blushing.”

He probably was. He certainly felt rather hot around the collar. But he had his pride.

“I'm a grown man, Miss Fisher. I'm not likely to blush at the sight of a little bare flesh.”

Her eyes sparkled as she watched him calculatingly. And with her painted lips curled into a smile, she spoke again. “That's what surprises me, Detective Inspector. In fact... lately... you're full of surprises.”

“It's all part of the job.” He murmured. And as she watched him expectantly Jack knew his self control would not last. “I have to get back to the station.” He told her hastily, not seeing the flicker of disappointment run through her eyes as he stood. “Excuse me.” 

Phryne watched him retreat knowingly. She had thought perhaps she could entice him to her bed, too addicted to his kisses to worry about her usual rules. It seemed he had caught right on to her plan.

“Goodnight, then.” She called after him, amused and pleased with the effect her painting had had on him, both mentally and -she hazarded to guess from the way he held his coat firmly across his front- physically.

“Goodnight.”


	9. Away With the Fairies

“Perhaps we could allow ourselves just one candle.” Phryne murmured, looking at Jack from across the table. “What do you think?”

Her eyes flicked to the candelabra on the table and back to him, noticing with some glee his lips were fighting back a smile. He too let his eyes flicker to the candles before re-meeting hers and saying carefully.

“I think I could cope with that.”

She smiled, reaching for her lighter. Phryne lit one candle before shaking out the flame and replacing the lighter to the table.

They sat at the table talking and eating until their one candle burnt out and Mr Butler brought a tray of drinks to the parlour, where they relocated. Phryne sat in one of the golden armchairs, tucking a foot beneath her backside and watching Jack over the rim of her cocktail glass as she sipped.

He raised his eyebrow.

“Yes, Miss Fisher?” He asked.

“Why do you insist on formality, Jack? You had no trouble saying my name in Café Réplique.”

Jack swallowed, shifting in his seat, “Yes well, that was under strenuous circumstances.” He mumbled, trying to cover his discomfort by taking a sip of his own cocktail.

“You mean you felt we were in danger. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your pattern of only calling me Phryne when you think I might come into harm’s way,” she said and he blushed, “Do you not like my name?”

Jack spluttered into his drink at that, hastily putting it down and collecting himself. “No, not at all, Miss Fisher- Phryne- It’s only that I-”

“That you what?” She asked sharply, though her sparkling eyes betrayed her amusement.

A thought struck him, and Jack licked his lips carefully before raising his eyes back to her and saying with as much of a straight face as he could manage, “It’s only that I see you much more as a _Florence_.”

Phryne snorted indignantly, but couldn’t hold back her laughter or wipe the grin from her face as she looked at him. After a moment he laughed with her, shaking his head and reaching for his glass once more.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a broad grin, “I could not pass the opportunity,”

Phryne almost giggled. “No it’s perfectly all right. I have been ...wondering,” she said, her voice slowly becoming softer, her expression more serious. “If you would say anything. If you remembered.” She murmured softly.

“I could never forget,” He tilted his head, “Lady with the lamp… Phryne.”

“ _Never_ Florence.” She told him sternly.

“But always my Nightingale.”

Phryne swallowed, her gaze dropping and smile falling suddenly. When she looked up again, her eyes were full of uncertainty and Jack frowned.

“Yours?” She asked.

And Jack closed his eyes.

Guilt stirred through him and he opened his eyes again to find Phryne waiting expectantly, her drink almost forgotten in her hand.

“My- my wife,” he murmured, without knowing what he planned to say.

Phryne cut in, however, dropping her feet to the floor and reaching out to take his hand, “It’s all right.” She told him softly, “You do not owe me anything. I understand.”

He was a coward, Jack realised, finding himself nodding at her words. But he could not do this now. He could not talk to her about Rosie, about the failure his marriage had been. About the years he had longed for her instead.

“When,” he murmured softly, “When I kissed you, it was. It was like I was there again.”

Phryne squeezed his fingers, “We were so young.” she told him, “But it has been a long time, Jack, since the war. And things were so very different then. You are allowed to have made a mistake.”

“It wasn’t a mistake.” Jack told her, his voice firm suddenly as he gripped her hand tighter and looked her in the eye, “Never a mistake Phryne.”

Phryne swallowed. Oh how she longed to kiss him. But she couldn’t, not now. Not anymore. She would not do that to Jack, who already ached so much from the shame and the guilt.

“No,” she agreed softly, “Love is never a mistake.”


	10. Queen of the Flowers

Phryne invited Jack to dine with them that night. He had been such an important part in securing this little family, first by introducing her to Jane, then convincing the Welfare to let the girl stay with her. It was his good word that allowed her to have adoption papers drawn, and now, it was through his connections they had found Jane and Mrs Ross in time. It was he who had climbed out the window and saved daughter and mother alike. She really owed him a lot.

Mr Butler showed him in where Phryne sat waiting in the parlour. Jane was upstairs with Dot finding Mrs Ross a nice dress to wear and she was grateful for the chance to see him alone.

The battered adoption papers he had returned to her that afternoon sat on the writing desk in the corner, signed. Jane was hers now, completely. But she had been telling the truth when she told him that Jane’s mother would always be her mother. She would find somewhere for Mrs Ross to live, somewhere she would be safe and well looked after.

“Jack,” she greeted, standing and walking to him. She leant in close and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “Thank you for coming.”

He smiled, a little nervously as she stepped back and put some space between them. “My pleasure, Miss Fisher.”

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, moving to the tray and pouring him a snifter without waiting for his answer.

“Thank you.” He took the glass with a nod and sat down. Phryne sat opposite, crossing her ankles and adjusting the skirt of her dress.

“I wanted to,” she murmured softly, “I want to thank you properly. For all you’ve done.”

Jack tilted his head, “What have I done?”

“You helped me find Jane, helped me save her. None of this could have come to be without you, Jack.” She met his gaze, feeling the pinpricks of tears starting to form. “So thank you. From the bottom of my heart, Jack. Thank you.”

He smiled, reaching across the space between them to place one of his large hands over hers resting on her knee.

“It’s been my pleasure... Phryne.”

Phryne let out a laugh that was half sob and turned her hands under his to twine their fingers together and hold him tightly. Watching him carefully, and never once dropping his gaze she raised his hand to her face, dipping her head to press a gentle kiss to his fingers.

“Oh!” said a voice, and Jack hastily pulled his hand away, the pair turning to find Anna Ross standing in the doorway. Her hair had been freshly washed and neatly pinned back, and she was dressed beautifully in a department store dress Phryne had bought for a costume or disguise.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all, Mrs Ross.” Phryne smiled, “Do come in, take a seat. Mr Butler will-”

The man himself appeared with a tray. He held it out and with a small nod of encouragement from Phryne, Mrs Ross accepted the glass of lemonade. Jane stepped into the room next, still dressed in her flower maiden dress, and Dot following behind her. They too accepted a glass from Mr Butler and Phryne smiled, raising her own glass to the air.

The others followed suit, and Phryne took a moment to take them all in. Jack with just a trace of lipstick on the knuckles of his right hand. Dot with a kind smile. Jane next to her mother, holding the woman’s other hand. 

“To Jane,” Phryne said proudly. “The most beautiful flower maiden.”

“To Jane.” Agreed the others, and they all drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone leaving comments. It really makes the world of difference, and keeps me motivated to write my other stories.


	11. Death By Miss Adventure

Aunt Prudence left Phryne’s house after a long and awkward afternoon tea, very full of pie and tea and grudging regret. Phryne saw her out with a relieved wave then turned back to her friend still seated in the parlour.

Elizabeth Macmillan sat with her legs crossed and a handkerchief folded across her lap like a napkin. She was silent as Phryne stepped back into the room and picked up a decanter. She pulled out the top and Mac held out her tea cup. Phryne poured and Mac drank. It had been a very taxing few days.

“Well,” Phryne sighed as she sat back down. “That was…”

“Mm.” Elizabeth agreed.

“I am glad that it is at least, over.” Phryne murmured, pouring a decent amount of the alcohol into her own tea cup. “Though I cannot begin to imagine how you must feel.”

Mac let out a breath, “No. I’m not even entirely sure I know how I feel.” She looked down into her cup, then raised it to her lips and tipped her head back, downing the last of it in one gulp.

“You do know I am always here for you, at any time, if you need someone to talk to.” Phryne told her softly, sitting forward in her chair and watching her dear friend in concern.

The doctor sat forward and replaced her tea cup in its saucer, then screwed up her handkerchief napkin and cast it aside on the table. When she looked up it was to find Phryne watching her carefully.

“I know, Phryne.”

They sat in a comfortable silence then, both content in the knowledge that they didn’t need words to understand. They could sit and be and be safe in the fact that the other was there, to love and support them through any means. All they had to do was ask.

After some minutes however, Mac caught sight of an old book that had been tucked hastily behind a cushion on the chaise across from them. She frowned curiously, and pleased to be distracted stood to retrieve it.

“Mac?” Phryne asked in confusion, but then the doctor pulled aside the cushion in question and Phryne felt her face flush, “Oh I wouldn’t bother yourself with that-”

“What is it?” Mac asked, looking down at the object and taking a seat on the chaise.

She opened it to a random page and Phryne stood, “It’s nothing, really Mac, just an old book of mine.” She reached for it, hoping to snatch it away and forget it.

“Why have you been reading a book of French poetry?” Mac asked, bemused as she flicked through the pages.

“I haven’t.” Phryne insisted, “Please, could you-” she made to grab the book, but Mac was quicker, holding it out of Phryne’s reach and arching an eyebrow.

“What is so special about this book?” She asked plainly.

Phryne faltered. “I- It meant a lot to me, during the war.”

“The war?” If possible Mac’s eyebrow raised even higher, “This isn't the book you used to keep under your pillow is it? The same one your soldier friend had me give you?”

Phryne didn’t respond. But she didn’t need to, Mac could see her answer in the younger woman’s expression. Without another word she opened the book to its inside cover and looked down. She read the words written there twice through, then looked up at her old friend just in time to see her drop her gaze.

“Why have you been reading this again, Phryne?” she asked softly.

“I haven’t-”

“Phryne. I always suspected there was more between you then. I didn’t know him, but I knew you. I saw the way you sought refuge with him, so why are you reading it now?”

Phryne sighed. She couldn’t lie to Mac. So instead she took a seat on the chaise next to her friend and looked into her hands as she murmured quietly. “Look at the name, Mac.”

“ _‘Yours, Jack’_? That could be anyone.”

“But it’s not.”

Elizabeth frowned, “Then who do you-” she stopped. “You’re not suggesting the Inspector?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mac. I know. I’ve known it was him from the moment we met at Lydia Andrews house. And he knows it too.”

Mac’s eyes widened. She had not been expecting this when she decided to tease her friend.

She looked back down at the book, “I suppose you’re in love with him then?”

“That’s just the issue, Mac. I’m not sure.”

Because how could she know, really, one way or the other? 

“I was eighteen years old when I met him. And it was war, things were different. I loved him and he went back to fight and then ten years later here we are. But it’s too hard, because after all this time how do I know if what I’m feeling is really love? I’ve had a decade to wonder how things might have been and perhaps it’s not him I really long for but the memories. The _concept_ of him and what we might’ve had.”

Phryne closed her eyes for a moment and sighed, “But then, if I am in love with him, what can I do about it? He’s a man of honour, Mac. He has a wife.”

Elizabeth let out a breath.

“Love is more trouble than it’s worth.” she murmured, pulling her cigarette case from her pocket and taking one before offering it to Phryne, who for once accepted. “However much joy it brings, it doubles in pain.”


	12. Blood and Circuses

The fire crackled, the sound filling the silence between two detectives as they sat in the parlour. Phryne held her knees to her chest, staring off into nothingness as Jack sat in the armchair across from her and watched. He wasn’t sure what to say. How did you comfort a woman who had completely withdrawn from the world; reeling after a long day's events and not only mourning the loss of her sister, but blaming herself?

He settled for simply being there, but as the minutes ticked by Jack began to feel he should be doing more.

After a while he stood. Phryne didn’t stir, too lost in her thoughts to notice. She didn’t even look up as he walked across the room to stand in front of her. He held out a hand, and rumbled in a low and quiet voice.

“Phryne,”

She started, her eyes snapping up to meet his in confusion.

“Come here,” he said, “stand up.”

She frowned at him and didn’t move. Jack cleared his throat, shifting on his feet awkwardly. “Just for a moment.” He bargained.

Slowly Phryne listened, her hands parting from around her knees and one of them reaching for his, taking it as her feet moved to the rug on the floor. He held her hand and pulled her to her feet until she was standing before him, a few inches shorter than he was used to with her feet in ballet slippers instead of her usual high heels.

She didn’t meet his eye, her gaze focused instead on his chest as she stood and waited for whatever he had in mind.

Jack looked at her, unsure really of what might happen next. He raised a hand and slowly brushed a lock of her dark raven hair behind her ear. As his fingers brushed over her skin he kept going, tracing the line of her jaw slowly and softly, until he came to her chin and crooked his fingers beneath it, tilting her head up so that she looked up to him, face to face.

“You were just a child, Phryne. What happened to your sister, it is not your fault. You are not to blame. Only he is.” She tried to look away but Jack’s hand moved to hold the back of her head, gently but firmly keeping it in place as he looked her right in the eye and murmured the words again, “You are not to blame.”

Phryne swallowed thickly. She did not want tears to come and as such forced them away. Instead she looked her Jack -her darling wonderful Jack- in the eye and asked a question that had been circling through her head for years.

“Is,” she whispered, “is love ever worth the pain?”

Jack felt his heart break for her. And he closed his eyes, forcing back tears of his own for just a moment. Still holding her head he pulled her forward, pressing his nose to the top of her head, his lips brushing over her fringe as he whispered.

“Yes,” he told her, kissing her forehead softly, “Yes of course it is.”


	13. Murder In The Dark

Jack stood at the foot of a bed in a spare room of Prudence Stanley’s house. Miss Fisher stood across the room, her back to him. It was not how he had expected this evening to go.

He was here only because Phryne had said she needed him. Despite the case Jack had otherwise planned to spend his evening wallowing in the bottom of some kind of very large bottle, hoping to forget his day at the Federal Magistrate's court. Drained from an emotional day Jack watched Phryne pulled out a costume, her heavily lined eyes shining brightly as she teased him and attempted to sway him into the outfit.

He did not want to dress in the costume, too tired to play games of cat and mouse with her tonight. Too exhausted to put up with the assumptions that would come from being the Mark Antony to Phryne’s Cleopatra, as well as her guest. And after today… Jack sighed.

It had been hard. He had stood in court, stood in front of a room full of men, some of whom he knew and respected, some of whom respected him. He wondered if any of them respected him now... He’d spoken in front of them all, acquaintances and strangers alike; and Rosie. She wanted this he knew. He would not have done it, would not have suggested it had she not asked him. But to stand in front of all those people and lie about marital indiscretions, he could not do it.

So instead he had told the truth.

For the first time in his life he spoke about the nurse he had met during the war. Spoke about how he had lain with her in his hospital bed, how he had returned home from the war and been unable to rekindle his romantic tendencies with his wife. The only truth he did not mention, was that he had since found his Nurse Nightingale again.

And she stood before him now; so captivating in her white and gold costume. He could barely take his eyes from her.

“No-one will know who you are.” Phryne said, continuing her arguments for him to bend to her will and put on the costume.

She stepped forward, far too close, her exotic perfume intoxicating his senses, her hands coming to his tie. Jack swallowed, his adam’s apple brushing her fingers as she loosened the knot. Briefly he thought back to Rosie. To the look on her face as he admitted to a court of law at having been unfaithful. He wondered if she knew he was telling the truth, or if she thought he had simply conceived a different lie than the one she has suggested.

“Except you.” He murmured lowly, watching Miss Fisher as she dropped the loosened tie to pull at the buttons of his collar.

“Come on, Jack.” She whispered, “Just one gaudy night.”

Jack paused, and her hands fell away, the two staring at each other from behind hooded eyes.

He swallowed. It still felt wrong; but it also stood shining before him, oh so bright, so perfect. Nothing in the world could feel as right as kissing her. And there was nothing to stop him now. Rosie had asked for a divorce he had granted her. The paperwork may take time, but he was a free man again.

And so, with his heart beating heavily in his chest, Jack raised a hand. He traced the back of his fingers up her neck, watching her stare at him. Watching her skin erupt into goosebumps with the slightest of shivers. He slid his hand across her skin then, her short hair brushing his wrist as Jack caressed her jaw, his fingers slipping under the gold headdress on her head.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled her forward. Her fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, and Jack felt his other hand find its way to her waist, stroking his fingers over her back through the stocking slip protecting the modesty of her stomach. Phryne’s lips parted, her dark eyes flickering to his mouth. Jack swallowed again reflexively, and tilted her head towards his before bending down, just a little, and closing the gap between them.

Her lips were just as soft as he remembered them. They tasted of champagne and lipstick and he opened his mouth against hers. His hand at her waist slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer; as close as she could get. Phryne’s hands too dropped his lapel to slip under his jacket and around his waist. Her fingernails scratched at his back through his crisp shirt, and her tongue met his as their mouths continued to dance. 

She began to pull the fabric from his trousers, thinking of the last gaudy night they had shared, thinking how the small bed behind him now was larger than the hospital bed in France. His arousal pressed indiscreetly against her hip. Phryne worked his shirt tails free, pushing him back until his backside was pressed to the edge of the bed’s footboard.

Her hands found his bare skin, slipping under his vest to trail over the muscles of his back. Jack gasped into her lips, wishing he could touch her too, but then her hands slipped from his back to undo the clasp of his suspenders and he froze under her touch. His lip was trapped between hers so heavenly as her wicked fingers moved next to the buttons of his fly.

“Phryne,” he panted, pulling his face just a hairbreadth away.

Her eyes opened, staring deep into his as their breath mingled. Between them she undid the first button of his trousers. She moved to the next one and her fingers brushed against him sensitively. Jack swallowed, his eyes closing for just a moment.

“Jack,” she whispered breathily, and he let her brush her lips to his for another brief kiss.

Taking a breath to steady himself, but receiving only a deep lungful of her perfume, Jack placed his hands over hers.

“If you really want a Roman soldier…” he managed to murmur, slowly pulling her hands away, “then I'll take it from here.”


	14. King Memses' Curse

The party passed with much laughter and dancing; a welcome change from what had been a truly harrowing week. Jack spent his time mostly observing the others, Cec danced with Mac, Bert drank on the sidelines and made laughing comments, Dot stood with Hugh, occasionally letting him twirl her on the dance floor as Arthur sang along to the songs and Jane danced joyfully with Phryne. Even Mrs Stanley seemed to be enjoying herself, a glass of champagne between her fingers as she too watched on with a smile.

But Phryne would not let him spend his entire night at the doorway. The song changed and Jane found a place to sit down and rest her sore feet. Miss Fisher took her opportunity and pulled Jack by the hand into the room before spinning herself under his arm and laughing gaily as he threw caution to the wind and joined her.

He was a surprisingly good dancer, Phryne thought, and Jack surprised himself by how he enjoyed it. After dancing two songs with Phryne he found himself dancing with Mac as well, and then Jane after that, and even Dot.

By the end of the evening near all the guests were thoroughly danced out and pleasantly full of fine food and alcohol. Mrs Stanley and Arthur had been the first to leave, some twenty minutes before, having been picked up by their driver. Young Hugh was next, kissing Dorothy on the cheek by the front door. The cabbies followed not long after, and Jane was sent by Dot up to bed.

Mac sat in the parlour having a silent conversation within noiseless glances with Phryne, Jack too distracted to notice as he stood by the empty fireplace and drank the last of what had to be his fourth glass of champagne. Phryne glared at her friend who was making pointed gestures to the Inspector with a tilt of her head. The doctor paid her no mind however, and finished her whisky, placing the glass loudly on the small table before her.

“Right then,” she said. “I’d best be off.”

“So soon?” Phryne asked, staring firmly at Mac as the woman stood and straightened her waistcoat.

“I have a busy day tomorrow,” the doctor lied with a smile. “Happy birthday, Phryne.” And with a kiss to Phryne’s cheek she was off, gathering her hat and coat by the door.

Phryne stared after her, the gall of that woman!

“Well then, Miss Fisher,” murmured a low voice, and she turned to see Jack leaning easily against the mantle. “It looks like it’s just you and me.”

Phryne let out a small sigh, but smiled. How could she not, when that gorgeous man was looking at her with such fondness.

“So it seems, Inspector.” she said, collecting her mostly full glass from the table and moving to join him at the fireplace. She mirrored his stance, resting one arm against the mantle, sipping her champagne with the other.

“I suppose I had better give you your present.”

Phryne’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, watching as Jack reached for an inside pocket of his jacket. “Oh Jack,” she said as he pulled free an envelope, “You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to.” He assured her, “Here, take it.”

He held out the envelope, and slowly Phryne placed her flute on the mantle and accepted the gift. Not wanting to leave Jack’s side to find a letter opener she slid her thumb beneath the flap and tore it open.

“Really Jack,” she said as she continued to tear open the envelope, “You didn’t need to get me a gift.”

“If it makes you feel better, Miss Fisher, it came to no monetary cost,” he teased. Phryne rolled her eyes at him, blindly reaching into the envelope and pulling free a piece of paper.

Jack swallowed nervously, and Phryne looked down.

It was the page from a book, she realised, her eyes scanning across the edge where it had been torn free. But the rest of the page showed signs of damage too. The corners were battered and a little torn, the paper itself curled and a bit stiff from having been wet and then dried at some point; the words of the last paragraph just a little blurred.

It was a poem. A French poem. And with a snap Phryne’s eyes shot up to meet Jack’s as he watched her carefully.

“Is this…?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“From my book?”

“Yes.”

A wide smile graced her features. “Wait just a moment.” She told him, thrusting the page of poetry into his hand before departing quickly from the room and rushing up the stairs. She returned just a few short minutes later, something held tight in her hands.

“Here,” she said, beaming and showing him what she had. 

It was the book. The very same book and as she opened it Jack caught a glimpse of the words he himself had written there so long ago. Phryne opened to a section with the torn remains of a missing page, then took the poem from Jack’s hand and laid it flat.

“You kept it all this time?” Jack asked, awed.

Phryne stroked the words of the poem softly, “Of course I did.” she murmured, “And you, Jack. You kept this safe. A torn page from a book of French poetry?”

“It was all I had of you.” He whispered in explanation. “And your letter.”

“You have that too?”

“It’s in my writing desk.”

Closing the book with a snap Phryne flung it to the closest chair, and it landed with a muted thud. Jack stared with his eyebrows just slightly higher than was normal. But Phryne pulled his attention back to her, taking his face in her hands and pulling him close until their lips met and she poured all the emotions bubbling in her chest and threatening to spill out into this kiss.

When she pulled back the pair were both breathless, Jack’s hands holding her hips close, her own hands resting happily on his shoulders.

“Thank you,” she murmured against his lips, “My darling Jack.”

Jack could only smile, his heart giddy as he held her close and kissed her again softly.

“Oh Phryne.” he whispered, “My Nightingale.”

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have come to the end! Thank you all so much for reading this, I'm so glad you've enjoyed it. And reading all your comments has been so delightful. Thank you thank you thank you!
> 
> I would like to also tell you that I've made a video that goes with this story. You can find it here...  
> http://ladyphryne.tumblr.com/post/126990342942/where-the-nightingales-are-signing-a-companion


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